


Wide Eyes Burn Blind

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blindfolds, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Handfeeding, M/M, Marking, POV Stiles, Steter Week 2016, Sub Stiles, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This isn’t about torturing you, baby. As much as I love watching you writhe for me, this is all about you.” The tip of a second finger rubs firmly at the skin behind his balls, making the nerve endings spark, but it doesn't push inside. “This is about wearing you out until you have no choice but to give in.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide Eyes Burn Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This was, as usual, enabled by BelleAmante. And indirectly by DenaCeleste. And also my need for some Gentle Dom Peter. None of this should surprise anyone. Title taken from Halsey's Roman Holiday. 
> 
> Holy shit, guys!!! GUYS! GIRLS! MY NON-BINARY PALS! I JUST GOT AMAZING NEWS! All kinds of it! My health is good, a crisis was averted, and I got word that I am being published in October! *does a happy dance* 
> 
> So Happy Friday, and Happy Steter Week to everyone!

 

It’s not a surprise, coming home to find Peter waiting for him. Not with the way Peter had been watching him today, the way the tension buzzing under his skin has ratcheted higher and higher, louder and louder until he can barely think past the itch to move, help, _do something_. There’s someone or something kidnapping children and Stiles needs to figure out what, and why, and how to stop them, because he can’t take the haunted look on his dad’s face or the bleak one on Derek’s or the way Scott’s just about ready to cry.

And he knows why Peter’s here, he does, but he doesn’t have _time_. “Peter, look, I know you mean well, but unless you’re here with an epiphany or new source for me to go through, you need to go.”

Peter flows to his feet with even more grace than usual. “If I thought you were capable of going through sources, I wouldn’t be here.”

And that, that’s not fair. He glares. “Look, you sanctimonious prick, I’m doing the best I can here. I was the one who ruled out half a dozen potential creatures tonight. I’m the one keeping tabs on the police investigation to see what they turn up, if there’s any evidence that it’s some regular sick fuck rather than something that goes bump in the night. And I’d like to point out that I’m not the only one in the pack—it shouldn’t be my sole responsibility to—”

His rant is cut off by Peter stepping close and curling werewolf-warm hands around his face. “I’m not criticizing you, sweet boy, and you know it.” Peter nuzzles at his jaw, lips skating across the thin skin under it when he tips his head a little. “You’re overwhelmed, and that means it’s time for a break.”

It’s tempting. Horribly, beautifully tempting. But, “I can’t afford it, and neither can those kids.”

Peter leans back to look him in the eye, hands still cupping his cheeks. “Oh really. So you weren’t planning on sleeping or eating at all tonight, then?”

And, just. Goddamn it. Stiles pulls away from Peter, because when Peter is in touching distance, they are _probably_ touching, and when they’re touching, his brain goes mushy and quiet. And, as amazing as that sounds, the missing children have to take precedence.

“Stiles, is your father pulling triple-shifts, living off of junk food, and sleeping at the station?”

He’s yanked from his thoughts by the question. His spine straightens, and he glares for all he’s worth. “Absolutely not. It doesn’t do anyone any good when he’s run down, and he has deputies for a reason. They’re a team, they work well together, and I need him to not work himself to death.”

Peter’s lips curl in a smug smile, and shit, that’s not good. Not even a little. “I could say the same about you, darling. You need food, and sleep, and rest if you’re going to help save the day, because it doesn’t do anyone any good when you’re run down.”

He grits his teeth. “You’re such a bastard.”

“I am not. My parents were married over a decade before I was born.”

He closes his eyes. “Look, if I accept that you have a valid point, if I eat and get some sleep and try again tomorrow, will _that_ make you leave?”

He jumps, eyes flying open when Peter’s voice murmurs right into his ear. “That depends. Can you tell me that you’ll do those things tonight with a steady heartbeat?”

His jaw and fists clench, and it takes more willpower than it should to relax them. It’s a hypothetical question. “Yes.”

“Then do it. If you can tell me that you’ll take tonight to rest, to relax, to take care of yourself instead of trying to research or hack police files or simply brood, then I’ll leave you to a quiet night in.” Peter crosses his arms and raises an expectant eyebrow.

And, okay. He can do that. He had no intention of doing any of those things, but he can change his plans in his head, believe for the next few minutes that he will, in fact, be doing what he says he will. He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to believe. “Tonight, I’m going to take a break from the case, eat, and get a good night’s sleep so I can—”

“You almost had it.” Peter tuts. “But then your heart stuttered, ever so slightly, when you said you’d get a good night’s sleep. Of course, the bigger giveaway was your scent, but even so—I’m not buying it, and you’re not getting rid of me.”

Last resort time it is, then. “I won’t go under.”

Peter’s face goes sharp and hungry. “We’ll see about that.”

His hands clench and release. “That’s not a challenge, asshole.”

Before he realizes it’s happened, Peter’s hand is fisted in his hair, pulling his head back and baring his throat. “You don’t talk to me like that, boy.”

He swallows, unable to stop the dread growing in his gut. The last thing he needs right now is to have his Sir pissed with him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Peter cuts him off. “I know how frazzled you are right now, so I’ll let that one slide. You be my good boy tonight, and everything’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he confesses. His statement hadn’t just been about making Peter fuck off. He doesn’t know if he actually _can_ go under right now. He has serious doubts about his ability to submit and be a good boy for Sir.

Peter chuckles before nibbling at his still-exposed throat. “Try.”

Heat builds under his skin, his scalp and throat tingling under Peter’s ministrations. Words are getting slippery. “I just—”

“—you just need to do as I tell you. That is sum total of your current responsibilities. Leave everything else to me.”

His whole body jerks, pressing against Peter when the gentle nips turn into a sharp bite. Peter’s arm winds around his waist, supporting him as he gasps at the stinging pain. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Peter’s grip tightens, and he knows he couldn’t pull away if he tried. If he wanted to. “On the contrary, you absolutely should.”

He’s not sure whether his guilt or relief is stronger as he sags against Peter, murmuring, “Okay.”

Peter cups the back of his neck, massaging lightly. “That’s my sweet boy.”

“I still don’t know if I can go under.”

Peter busses a kiss across his cheek. “You leave that to me.”

He bites his tongue on the whine he wants to make when Peter steps back, forcing him to stand unsupported. He suddenly feels exhausted. Sir tips his chin up, tilting his face to the side, calculating. He nods. Stiles doesn’t understand why, doesn’t want to riddle out whatever is going on in that devious mind.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. “I want you to go strip and get clean. By the time you come back, I’ll be ready for you.”

“Yes, Sir.” He’s not at all in the mood for sex, kind of just wants to sleep if he’s being honest, but Sir’s calling the shots right now, so. Off he trudges.

By the time he shuffles back, skin pink from the heat of the shower and his clothes bundled in his arms, very little looks different in his room. But it’s the small things that draw his attention, that tell him what Sir’s planning.

The covered plate and water bottle are expected. Sir doesn’t always insist on food, but water, yeah. The light of his desk lamp is dimmer than his overhead, and makes everything seem softer, somehow. That’s also pretty normal.

What isn’t is the lack of anything else. There’s no rope, no cuffs, no equipment of any kind laid out on the bed. He looks at Sir, wondering what, exactly, is going on. He comes over and strokes Stiles’s face, thumbs smoothing over his eyelids. When Sir speaks, it’s in a confident purr. “I’m going to blindfold you.”

Stiles feels his heart start to race, because they’ve done that once or twice, but it’s kind of a soft limit. He doesn’t like sensory deprivation. Before he can say anything, Sir continues. “I’m going to blindfold you because I want all of your focus on me. I want that twisted, beautiful mind full of nothing but my words, my touch, and how much you _need_.” There’s a pause, and Peter’s thumbs keep tracing the edges of his eyelashes. “You won’t be gagged. You won’t be restrained. You can safeword or take it off if you really need to.”

He knows it’s an out. He also knows he won’t be punished for taking it, or for vetoing it outright. He wants to. But he also knows they’ve been doing this a while now, that Sir is more careful than he seems, and that there’s a reason behind this choice. Probably several, if he’s being anything like honest.

So he draws in a deep breath, and lets it out carefully. His job is to trust, so he whispers, “Okay.”

He holds onto the image of Sir’s approving smile as the blindfold slip over his eyes and he fights against the sudden disorientation. Sir doesn’t let him flounder, steering him until he can sit on the bed. There’s a rustle of cloth, and then his hand is lifted until he’s brushing his fingers over bare skin. He pauses, wanting to touch, but unsure he’s allowed.

He doesn’t hesitate long. He’s not cuffed or tied, and Sir never said he couldn’t touch. If that changes, he has no doubt he’ll be told, so he brings his other hand up and traces the jut of Peter’s hipbones. He startles a little when a large hand settles in his hair, but the surprise doesn’t last long. He pushes into it before ducking down to get his mouth on Peter’s cock.

“No, sweet boy.” He makes a confused sound. Isn’t that what Sir wants?

“Not tonight.”

And then he’s being moved around, shuffled up the bed so Sir can lie over him. His hands glide up the planes of Peter’s back, and he loves the warm security of it, of being covered this way. It gets even better when Sir sucks kisses under his ear, making him squirm and buck against the body pressing him to the bed. He may not have been in the mood for sex before, but he can safely say he wants it now.

Sir ignores his whining, continuing to leisurely suck up a smattering of hickeys across his skin. It’s not until he’s all-but crying, breathless and leaking, not until he gasps, “Sir, _please_ ,” that he finally gets more.

Sir rolls them over, hauling him up until he’s in Peter’s lap with his legs wrapped around the older man’s waist and no leverage to speak of. His hands scrabble for purchase across the warm, smooth skin of Peter’s shoulders when a slick finger circles his rim. He tries to rock back into it, but can’t. He tries anyway.

Sir clucks his tongue. “Oh no, pretty boy. This isn’t about how much your gorgeous little body wants me to fill it up. This won’t be a quick fuck. Tonight is about making you let go, even if I have to pry each of your fingers up one by one.”

He shudders as Sir eases inside. He tries to grind down, force it deeper, but Sir’s hand at the small of his back holds him still while the digit twists and curls slowly. He groans as it teases his prostate. “Stop torturing me!” He hopes he sounds as indignant and demanding as he feels, but the silent laugh vibrating through Peter’s chest and into his own makes that unlikely.

“This isn’t about torturing you, baby. As much as I love watching you writhe for me, this is all about you.” The tip of a second finger rubs firmly at the skin behind his balls, making the nerve endings spark, but it doesn't push inside. “This is about wearing you out until you have no choice but to give in.”

His hips judder, clenching around Sir’s finger. The idea that Sir won’t accept ‘no’, won’t stop until he’s done exactly what Sir wants, shouldn’t be hot, but it is. He’s not in control, hasn’t been from the moment he walked into his room to find Sir waiting for him, and is only now understanding that he’s already halfway to under. Maybe further than half.

His grip on Sir’s shoulders tightens as another finger nudges in to join the first. It’s so slow and careful that it’s almost agony, but he can wait, can be patient, be good for Sir. It won’t be long, there’s two and soon it’ll be three, and then those big hands will be gripping him tight while Peter’s cock forces him to open up and fall into pleasure so intense it’d make his vision grey out even if his eyes were uncovered.

Only, Sir works him over for a long time with just the two, pushing and pulling and curling, deep but never deep enough. He nearly sobs when Sir withdraws before he’s shushed, before the two fingers come back re-slicked and with a third. He really does tear up a bit then, but only because finally getting more is such a relief.

It’s as his tears start soaking into the blindfold, his whole body trembling and voice cracking over pleas for more, that he understands why Sir chose this. The blindfold won’t let him focus on anything but his body and what Sir’s doing to it. On the way the hand bracing him feels big, and warm, and safe; the way he wants to fuck himself on Peter’s fingers, and instead has to squirm and take what he’s being given; the scrape of teeth and stubble as a network of kisses and nips are laid over the hickeys blooming across his neck, shoulders, collarbones—anything Sir can reach.

When inhumanly-sharp teeth dig into his neck, he arches so hard and so fast that it’s only the hand at his back keeping him from hitting the floor. They’re bright points of good pain, the kind that makes his spine tingle after the drugging heat of Peter’s mouth and tongue. When he can breathe again, he gasps, “Oh, fuck, _yes_. Bite me again.”

Peter’s laugh is muffled against his throat, which is raw and sensitive. But then he does. Again and again, until Stiles is so caught up in the stinging of his abused skin that the feeling of Sir’s cock slipping inside him takes him off-guard.

It’s easy. Easy and sweet and perfect.

Time loses meaning as he grinds in Sir’s lap, letting the way his body reacts to the pain of Peter’s fangs dictate how and when his hips move. There’s a steady burn under his skin, but he’s in no rush. There’s nothing—not even orgasm—better than this, than having his whole body quivering, unsure of which touch to push into, his mind drowning in so much sensation that all he can think is _more_. He never wants it to end.

But eventually, Sir decides it has to, and rolls them so he’s flat on his back again, and pinned under the bulk of Peter’s body. Sir’s hips roll, fast but smooth, and between the sudden rush _morefasterrightthere_ and the friction against his cock, he’s a goner. After being strung out for so long, his orgasm feels like it rips him apart—an explosion starting in his pelvis and blasting outward.

After, Sir kisses him for the first time that night, sucking his bottom lip. It takes effort, but he kisses back, mouth moving languidly under Peter’s. It’s the only movement aside from his trembling for a long time. Or maybe it only feels like a long time. He doesn’t know—he can’t tell the difference between seconds and minutes, and can’t see his clock to check. He doesn’t really care.

Sir doesn’t pull out until he’s already gone soft and Stiles’s hips are starting to ache. He listens as Sir pads around softly, cleaning himself up and fetching the water from the desk before coming back. Stiles thought he’d want to be talked to, would need the constant reassurance of Sir’s voice while temporarily blind, but had been kept grounded through touch, by the weight of Peter’s body and the heat of his skin.

The bed dips as Sir joins him again. “Hey, sweet boy. You back with me?”

He hums, nuzzling into the hand at his jaw.

Sir’s voice is amused. “Not quite yet, then.”

Stiles flops around until his head is in Peter’s lap and Sir’s carding gentle fingers through his hair. When it stops suddenly, he whines.

“It’s alright, pretty, I’m just wrapping you up. You’re starting to shiver.” And, well. That makes sense.

It takes a while longer before he’s really back, before his jelly-limbs will support him when he tries to push himself upright. He leaves the blindfold alone. “Sir?”

“Open up, baby.” He obeys, and swallows the water that’s tipped into his mouth. “Good boy. You ready for the blindfold to come off?”

He pauses, considers the state he was in before Peter, the way he feels now, the way the blindfold is keeping him separate, at a distance from all the ugliness waiting for him. “If you want it to.”

“Hmm. In that case, we’ll leave it a bit longer yet.”

He sighs, relieved. “Okay.”

“I want to try something. Open up.”

His mouth drops open before he decides to listen, before he even thinks to ask what they’re trying and why Peter’s choosing now to spring something new on him. But then one of Sir’s hands cups his face, and the other pops someth—banana. It’s a piece of banana. He chews, swallows. Waits.

This time, when Sir taps his bottom lip, he expects the bite placed on his tongue. He’s a little surprised that it’s a cracker, but not as thrown as he was by the banana. They keep going like that, one of Sir’s hands cradling his cheek while the other feeds him bite-by-bite and tips water into his mouth. He doesn’t know what to think of it, but he likes it.

“I’m going to wash my hands, and when I come back, I’ll clean you up and tuck you in. Do you want me to stay?”

He’d roll his eyes if Peter could see them. “Of course.”

Sir drops a kiss on his forehead. “Brat,” he says, but it’s fond.

He moves as directed when Sir returns, hiding a smile as Peter’s fingers brush across each bite and bruise before scrubbing his stomach clean. He burrows his face into his arms when he’s put on his belly, knowing what comes next. It never fails to make him blush. Sir wipes up the come between his thighs and cheeks before easing two fingers inside, flexing carefully. “Anything hurt?”

“Peter,” he whines.

“We go through this every time, sweet boy. You know the drill. Anything hurt?”

He tightens up for a moment, trying to feel something other than melty. “Maybe a little sore? Just the usual kind, I think.”

Sir makes a clipped noise, flexing one last time before pulling his hand away. “Tell me if that changes. Now, bed.”

He happily flails his way beneath his covers, and the ensuing snort at his antics has him sticking his tongue out. Sir slides in beside him a moment later, curling an arm around his shoulders and letting him pillow his head on the werewolf’s bare chest.

As he drifts to sleep with Peter’s heartbeat under his ear and thumb rubbing circles on his arm, he remembers that he’s still wearing the blindfold. His hand hovers over it, unsure of what to do. He doesn’t want to wake up with it still on, but it’s not his to remove. Sir twines their fingers together. “Go to sleep. I’ll make sure it’s gone in the morning.”

 


End file.
